And that just won’t do at the Peoria County Courthouse. There, droplets of perspiration easily flow into a flood of discomfort, enough to overwhelm the wheels of justice and bring local jurisprudence to a standstill.

Wow. Until then, I thought only the likes of baseball games and kiddie soccer got called on account of weather. But, in a judicial order penned Monday demanding better air conditioning, Lyons described the brutality of the courtroom climate:

Yikes! More than 80? Maybe it was 81. Or even — gasp! — 82. It’s as if the poor judge has been thrown into the mouth of hell.

Speaking of which, Lyons continued, “No business could be conducted due to sultry and uncomfortable temperatures and conditions.”

“Sultry”? Sounds like the voice-over on a commercial for a 1970s made-for-TV movie starring Morgan Fairchild. Lyons might as well have said “steamy” or “torrid.”

Anyway, all this make Lyons hot and grumpy. Right now, I bet droves of Keystone workers are huddled around a furnace, melting steel at about 3,000 degrees, shaking their heads and sadly muttering, “Boy, I can’t believe they make that judge endure such horror.”

And come August, you can envision teachers in District 150’s non-AC schools, sweat rolling down their backs as students melt from late-summer heat, gasping out an assignment, “Class, take out a piece of paper to write an essay about why Judge Kevin Lyons is getting a raw deal. Try not to smudge your penmanship with perspiration.”

Lyons has been on a campaign to improve courthouse conditions. Last week, he and another judge took several County Board members on a tour of the courthouse, pointing out weathered carpet, crummy technology and other neglect. Monday, though, he grabbed the bull by the horns, summoning the assistant county administrator to appear before the court to explain the lack of cool air.

Told of a power failure, the overheated Lyons wasn’t satisfied. He wrote an order giving the county administrator seven days to provide a comprehensive written plan as to how the county responds to severe emergencies like excess sweating.

Page 2 of 2 - Meantime, Monday, Lyons canceled all hearings. Imagine that: too hot for justice. Actually, that would make for a sweet slogan on a T-shirt for Lyons — that is, if he wears anything under his black robe.

You know that urban myth about judges going naked under their robes? Well, though that might seem creepy — and, on a judge’s leather seat, sticky — it could allow sweet heat relief for Lyons and his colleagues.

Otherwise, to help out, I searched the web for ideas on “how to keep cool.” Most suggestions involved cool treats and clothes. To that extent, perhaps Lyons could ascend the bench while clutching a cherry popsicle and frozen margarita, clad in a mesh T-shirt and flip-flops.

If that’s too outlandish, maybe Lyons could instruct the bailiff to wave a giant fan, like Egyptian servants used to do for a Pharaoh. Then again, the air current might muss Lyons’ perfect coif, prompting him to dash off another order, this time demanding the county hire an official judicial hairstylist.

Writing those orders must be fun. I wish I could do that at work, when conditions do not meet my tastes. I’d demand that the newspaper install better headphones on my computer, so I could crank Whitesnake to 11. And I’d require the vending-supply guy to stock the soda machine with Grape Nehi. Until then, it’s impossible to get any work done around here.

Meanwhile, I realize that county courtrooms might get a wee steamy. But can you imagine if a defendant filed an appeal based on unpleasant trial temperatures? Appellate justices would laugh.

Plus, how did courthouses operate in days of yore? When Abraham Lincoln traipsed into the Metamora courthouse, did he turn tail and flee when the courtroom got hot? I bet Ol’ Abe stuck it out. And remember, heat rises, making the climate even worse for a tall gent like Lincoln.

And consider July 2, 1776, when the Second Continental Congress jammed into Independence Hall to vote for independence. Those guys wore big wigs and heavy coats, yet they didn’t cancel the day’s business. And they certainly didn’t write an impatient order demanding lackeys to jump at their command.

If Judge Lyons is hot, maybe he can buy a few ice packs and jam them into his pockets. I think he can spare a few bucks from his $181,479 annual salary. For that kind of paycheck, I know plenty of guys who’d spend 40 hours a week in a sauna.